The Middle of the World
by JosieTyrell
Summary: A rewrite of the Turner family's journey through series 6, with bits of Shelagh's past written in to go along with it.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter I**

She lay with her arm behind her head like an artist's sketch, the blankets and sheets pulled halfway up and draped lazily around her. It was before dawn. Shelagh still wasn't used to sleeping past four, and when, sometimes, she found herself opening her eyes at that hour she always said a small prayer. She prayed for different things now; guidance from God, as always, but also prayers for her family that conjured a warmth within her that hadn't been there before. She loved God as much as she always had, and her family just as much. But there could not have been two forms of love as different from each other.

Shelagh brought her left hand up so she could see its outline in the half-light, ran the pad of her right thumb across the ring. She let her hands wander now to her abdomen, flat but not for long. Another in a series of events that took her life on more twists and turns than she ever could have imagined.

One of the things that struck her about life was its capacity to change. One moment you're a nun and the next you're a wife and mother. At first it's hard to bear, but after a while you learn not to look at it as a loss. There's even a moment when it becomes exhilarating to realize just how little needs to stay the same for you to continue the effort they call, for lack of a better word, being human.

Patrick stirred beside her, and reached to run a warm finger over her wrist. "It's early. What are you thinking about?" he asked, voice husky from sleep.

Shelagh hesitated. The response was long and complex. She wished it was conventional and contained.

"When I was younger, before I came to Nonnatus, I had a friend," she began slowly. "Not a best friend, but a good one. The last time I saw her was the day I left for London. She was standing on a street corner." Her words were large in the dark silence. "We had already said our goodbyes a few days ago, but she happened to turn around to watch me go. It might have been an accident. I looked at her for a long time through the window as we drove off." Shelagh smiled to herself, but Patrick heard it. "She wore purple gloves, and she waved to me. And I waved back. My hands were cold, though, because I'd forgotten mine. They were blue, and I forgot them."

This memory of her past was like a ring of smoke, staying suspended for a moment, then slowly fading away. It was rare for his wife to speak of her past. Each story she told was like a small piece of some precious stone. Patrick listened, and he stroked the back of her hand again, noticing how it now lay spread across her stomach. "I think about what happened to those gloves. When I joined the Order all my possessions were given away. And before I left home I had already given most of them away, anyway…But those gloves. They were right beside the door when I left." She sat up and looked at her husband. A shy sun was rising behind her, and her outline emerged from the darkness. "Whose are they now?"

Patrick smiled and tucked a piece of hair behind her ear instead of responding to a question he had no answer to. "I don't like unfinished endings," she concluded, leaning into his palm.

"Neither do I," Patrick said.

She turned slightly and the timid light illuminated her cheek. "But I like beginnings."

"I do, too."

She reached for his hand and placed a soft kiss to the center of his palm. Lying down again, she curled beside him like a shrimp. She pulled his arm with her, bringing it to rest against her chest, near enough for him to feel her heart. He lay down, one arm around her. Soon her breathing slowed, her heart fell into a steady rhythm, he felt her sleeping.

So many words get lost. They leave the mouth and lose their courage, wandering aimlessly until they are swept into the gutter like dead leaves. Her small stories, often uttered in darkness, filled Patrick's heart to bursting. Each one was a new seashell he could later press to his ear, hearing the echo of her.

There was so much that he didn't know about her, and so much that, over the course of time, he had discovered about her.

One night she had told him about the first baby she'd delivered. She still knew its name, the exact date. Three nights later she'd spoken very briefly of her mother. Just this week he had learned that, as a girl, she'd worn her hair in a long braid down her back. His eyes had gone watery with revelation, filled with the feeling that he was on the verge of understanding the essence of something.

A picture began to form with each grain of her past she shared with him. A young woman with cold hands, setting off on a journey that would last ten years. Abandoned gloves. Patrick took a long, slow breath. Every day was a beginning. They slept until sunrise.

* * *

Author's Note: So...first tentative step into writing a Call The Midwife fic! I wrote a later chapter (by that I mean a bunch of word vomit that shall never see the light of day until it's cleaned up and makes actual sense) of this in a notebook a few days ago and just _agonized_ over how to lead up to it, so writing this chapter was very difficult for me. But, once I got going, the rest poured out at about 3 AM. Would love to know what you think.

While writing this I listened to "Le père" by Armand Amar, and "Julie -In Her New Apartment" by Zbigniew Preisner


	2. Chapter 2

Note: This begins around the end of 6x02.

Chapter II

They waved goodbye to Patsy, and as the car drove off and rounded the corner, disappearing from sight, Shelagh turned to her husband.

"I think I'll go home early, Patrick," she said, "if you can manage without me at the surgery." He looked concerned.

"Of course I can manage! Are you all right?"

She smiled indulgently. "I'm perfectly all right, just a bit queasy. And I'd like to spend some time with Angela this afternoon if I can. I always worry that she and Timothy don't see enough of us as it is."

Patrick nodded in agreement. "I would drive you, but I walked to the clinic after my rounds. The car is still parked at home."

"Oh, I could use a walk, Patrick. It'll do me good." He ran a hand over her shoulder blades.

"If you're sure."

She laughed. "I'm certain! It's just an hour or so early, anyway. I'll make Timothy help with dinner."

He squeezed her hand. "Leave all the dishes for him to do afterwards."

She nodded with mock seriousness. "Oh, of course."

They leaned together for a kiss, and then Shelagh set off for home. Patrick watched her walk away. The sun lit up her hair for an instant and as she turned left at the end of the street, it shone auburn. He let his hands rest in his pockets as he walked back to the surgery, not far off.

"All right, Doctor Turner?" A young boy called, waving. Patrick waved back and narrowly avoided tripping over a badly-aimed football.

"David?" There were so many children in Poplar, but Patrick thought he recognized this one. "How's your arm?"

David raised his left arm. The splint was still intact, but the bandages had gathered dirt no doubt from playing outside after school. "It don't hurt no more, doc. You said I'd be gettin' this off next week."

Patrick smiled. "Yes, next week. But be careful!" He kicked the stray ball back towards the group of children and continued on his way. It was a beautiful afternoon.

* * *

Children were coming home from school now, and many of them greeted her by name as she walked up the street. Shelagh smiled back at them, marveling at how the world was growing up around her. When she was a child, she had believed that adults never aged. Of course, they had birthdays, there was often just a simple cake. A small gift and perhaps a hand-drawn card from a child. But the only birthdays she had celebrated had been for other children. The adults never looked any older to her. Clara Grefe, who owned the sweet shop Shelagh had gone to once or twice a month as a girl, Clara and her dark brown hair. Mr. Regis, the farmer who lived next to them, Mr. Regis and his tobacco-stained fingers and sunken cheeks. Her father had been the only one to age, really. And it was only by leaving home that she had noticed.

 _1942_

 _Shelagh walked to the end of their small road, to the edge of the fence with its crude gate, the road didn't have a name. The ground was damp. The air smelled like hay and sheep. She thought about not turning around, not looking back, thinking it might be for the best. Wind licked at her cheek and, for a moment, she closed her eyes, waiting for it._

Shelagh! _the voice would call, and her heart would fill her ears at the sound of her own name, of that voice._

 _She opened her eyes and turned back to look at the house. Nothing had changed. Her absence didn't alter the sight in any way. The corners of her eyes stung and her mouth felt full of copper coins._

 _Then she saw him. Her father's face through the window, staring back at her. Perhaps he had waited for this particular moment, when he thought she would be too far away to see him clearly, or too far away to think of walking back. But she saw him. And there was no joy behind those eyes, only pain. For the first time she noticed the lines in his face, how they seemed to form the expression not of age but of grief. And then, for an instant, he smiled. The lines shifted to form it. He nodded at her, but made no move to go to the door, to open it, to call her back._

Goodbye, _she'd said, but her words were lost in the cold air. She didn't repeat them._

When Shelagh opened the door and walked inside Mrs. Penny was just setting her bag down and unbuttoning Angela's jacket. "Ah, Mrs. Turner! You're home early! We was just coming back from the shops." The older woman pulled a jar of currant jam from her bag. " _This_ _one_ accidentally broke the other jar when we were cleaning up tea earlier today," she looked at Angela, but there was no anger behind her words.

Shelagh gasped. "Oh, Mrs. Penny, I'm sorry! If you'll just leave the receipt I'll be sure to have the money back for you tomorrow."

"Mama! Up!" Angela said, walking over and pulling on the hem of her mother's coat. Suddenly Shelagh felt ill and searched her pockets for a handkerchief. Brushing Angela aside, she headed for the bathroom.

"Excuse me a moment, Mrs. Penny!" She shut the door behind her and barely made it to the toilet before vomiting up bile. One hand clutched at her abdomen, where a dull ache had begun earlier from continually bringing up food. The more she ate the better she felt, but the eating was often followed by horrible periods of nausea or full-on trips to the bathroom where she brought up her breakfast or lunch. She heaved again once, twice, and then it was over. She flushed the toilet. Standing up from the tiled floor, Shelagh leaned heavily on the edge of the sink to wash her hands and rinse her mouth, then dried the corners of her eyes. A deep breath later she walked out of the bathroom, hearing Mrs. Penny speaking with Angela in the sitting room.

"Are you well, Mrs. Turner?" she asked, concern in her eyes.

Shelagh nodded. "Oh, just a little upset stomach is all. You're free to go home early tonight, Mrs. Penny, if you'd like." She smiled at Angela, who walked over to her again. "I can manage Angela."

The older woman looked at her with a knowing look. "All right, then. You look awfully pale, though, love. Settle down and have a biscuit, it'll pass." Before Shelagh could react, Mrs. Penny waved to Angela. "I'll see you tomorrow morning, Miss Angela!"

Shelagh watched her gather her things together. "Have you got the receipt, Mrs. Penny? For the jam?"

"On the counter under the jar, just out of Angela's reach, Mrs. Turner."

They said their goodbyes, and then Shelagh turned her attention to her daughter, who was tugging on her skirt now. "Yes, Angela, come here, darling." She leaned down to pick her up, then moved the little girl to her hip, kissing her round cheek. Angela clapped and kissed her mother. "Oh, you're really getting heavy then, aren't you?" Shelagh asked, bouncing Angela a bit. The girl laughed.

"I'm big!" Angela exclaimed, clapping again.

Shelagh laughed a full laugh. "Come with me, I've got to get out of this uniform before I explode, then we'll see what trouble we can get into before Timothy comes home!"

In the bedroom, Shelagh put Angela down to walk around while she changed from her nurse's uniform to a simple dress. She peeped back into the bathroom for a moment, studying her own face. Trying to find where age would show.

"Mummy? Up!" Angela said, following her into the bathroom. Shelagh picked her up again, a slight stitch in her abdomen made her slow her movements. Then she shrugged, kissed Angela again, and set off for the sitting room. "Should we draw a nice picture to put in your room?"

"A nice picture," Angela repeated with a hint of her mother's accent. She was learning to string words together into full sentences, and when she spent time alone with Shelagh her little voice seemed to become confused, sometimes gushing out sentences with ease like Timothy, others in a strange mixture of accents with no apparent word order. For the past few months it seemed as if Angela had yet to acquire any grammatical structures other than the command form. Her favourite commands included: "more", "up", "down", "cuddle", and "stop". And although she was far from abandoning her short but comprehensible commands, she had recently discovered the magic of the word "why". It wasn't clear to them if she understood the word, or just used it as a follow up to every sentence Shelagh, Patrick, or Timothy spoke. "It looks like a nice day," uttered by Timothy in passing that morning had immediately been followed by a calm, "Why?" from Angela, sitting innocently at the breakfast table with Shelagh.

He had turned his head back from the window to look at his little sister. "Well, the sun's out."

Angela took a spoonful of food, swallowed, then stared at him again. "Why?"

"Because it's the morning!" Shelagh had said brightly. "That's when the sun comes out!" With the next spoonful of food offered, Angela had held out her small hand and shook it.

"No more."

* * *

It was Friday evening, and Timothy was thinking about language. Today they had been given ten new Latin roots to memorize over the weekend. But he was thinking.

He'd read somewhere that the first language humans had was gestures. There was nothing primitive about the language that flowed from people's hands, nothing we said now that couldn't be said in an endless array of movements possible with the fine bones of the fingers and wrists. The gestures were complex and subtle, involving a delicacy of motion that had since been lost completely.

He knew that deaf people used their hands and faces to communicate, but he had met only two deaf people in his life. One, an old man, had lost his hearing with age. He knew what it was to hear the glorious cry of a train arriving at the station, how voices changed inside rooms with high ceilings, the sound of his own name, a violin. The other person that he knew had been only a child, younger than him but not by much. He had lost his hearing as a baby following an infection. The boy communicated with his sister using their hands, but the boy had been sent away somewhere. Somewhere where it would be "easier" for him. He would never hear his own name, never know music.

Timothy wondered if at large gatherings or parties, or around people with whom you felt distant, your hands sometimes hung awkwardly at the ends of your arms because they remembered a time when the division between mind and body, brain and heart, what's inside and what's outside, was so much _less._ It wasn't that the language of gestures was completely forgotten. The habit of moving our hands while we speak must be left over from it. Clapping, pointing, giving the thumbs-up: they were all artifacts of ancient gestures.

Although it was not yet cold, the sky had darkened and he was later getting home than usual. The light was on in the sitting room, the car parked in front, and it was after seven-thirty, so it was likely that his mother would be worrying about him, and that his father had finished his rounds. After school Timothy had studied in the library, then played chess at John's. He tended to dawdle when he got to thinking.

* * *

"Dr. Turner, could you take a look at Mrs. Cooke?" Nurse Crane asked, popping her head into his office at the surgery. "We might have to admit her to the Maternity Home, Doctor," she said as he stood and adjusted his jacket. "Delivery is any day now and baby seems to be laying in the breech position."

He followed her down the hall. "And Mrs. Frayser is delivering now, so that would leave one empty bed if we needed one. Let's see if you're right, Nurse Crane."

Phyllis looked at him for a moment, an eyebrow raised.

He stopped before entering the room, catching her silent annoyance. "I'm sure you're right, Nurse Crane. Let's confirm."

"As you were," she said, and they went inside.

* * *

"I know I'm late," Timothy began as he walked in the door. He hurried in taking off his jacket. "I played chess with John again." He heard Angela crying and went into the sitting room.

"Angela?" he said, and went to pick her up from her cot, where she was standing and holding her arms out to be held. "Hey, what's wrong?" Her cheeks were ruddy with tears and, although she calmed in his arms, she continued to whimper. "Hello?" he called, wandering around the sitting room and kitchen.

"Mrs. Penny?" His mother's apron was missing from its hook on the kitchen wall. "Mum?" he called instead, walking down the hallway, shushing Angela and rocking her slightly on his hip. The bathroom door was ajar, and light was shining out from inside. "Mum? Are you in there?" He asked. When he received no answer, he pushed lightly on the door. It opened, then caught on something. He walked inside and looked down.

"Mum?!" He put Angela down ungracefully and she fell, beginning to cry again. Timothy dropped to his knees, brushing the hair out of his mother's eyes. "Mum?!" he was shouting now, and he turned her body slightly, shaking her even though he knew he probably shouldn't. Her eyes opened and she gasped a little, as if awakening from a bad dream.

"What happened?" he cried, clutching her shoulders. He quickly scanned her over as he'd seen his father do almost unconsciously over each patient. She wore a dark blue dress with her yellow apron tied over it. He saw the blood blossoming across it at the same time that she said, "Call."

With Angela still crying in confusion, Timothy put Shelagh down and ran for the phone. He dialed his father's Surgery. The line rang and rang, and he heard a moan from down the hallway. He hung up, then dialed Nonnatus House. The line rang and rang.

"Timothy?"

He slammed the phone down again and ran back to the bathroom, crouching beside his mother. She had turned and sat up, but her left hand clutched at her abdomen. "It's all right, I'm-" Timothy shook his head and stood up.

"You're not all right. No one's answering at the Surgery or at Nonnatus."

Shelagh grimaced. Her face was so pale.

Later Timothy would struggle to recall most of what happened that night. He would think of a broken vase, swept up with all but the tiniest pieces missing, memories like shards of glass. He squeezed Shelagh's shoulder and ran back to the front hall, digging deep into the pockets of his father's coat. When he had the key he rushed back to his mother and sister. Angela's face was tearstained. She toddled away from her mother, bereft, and held her arms up to Timothy.

"Up!"

* * *

Author's Note: Thanks for the feedback on the first chapter! I'm still struggling to work up to the parts I wrote first, so these first few chapters seem patchy to me, but it'll get more cohesive later. This fic is dark but I promise will have a happy ending. Let me know what you think of this.

While writing this I listened to: "Always Summer" by Adrian Johnston, "The Escape" by Max Richter, and "Arrival of the Birds" from The Cinematic Orchestra.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter III

The chair the nurse had given him was bony and uncomfortable, and the low-lights of the room made his head hurt. The lights were on, no doubt, so that the night nurses could do their job and still not wake their patients, but Timothy thought that sitting by her bed would have been easier in the darkness. Then he wouldn't have to see her like this, looking so fragile in the hospital bed, but he could still wait with her.

His hands had stopped shaking, and they'd offered him something for the pain, but he'd refused. It seemed ridiculous to him that a tablet could relieve any of the pain that he felt tonight. He chewed at his split lip and tasted dried blood. The cup of tea beside her bed stayed there, untouched. When the nurse had set it down for him the milk in the cup was just settling, it bloomed through the tea like ink poured in clear water.

The nurse had said she would call his father, but it felt like hours had passed already with no sign of him. Angela had bumped her head in the car, and they had taken her to the children's wing for a checkup and to put her to bed. The only reason that Timothy was allowed to wait by Shelagh's bed was because she had no one else with her, and he had nowhere else to go.

The rush of adrenaline was fading quickly, and Timothy leaned forward to rest his head on her bed, near to her hand, which lay beside her. It looked frighteningly lifeless. Timothy closed his eyes, they burned with the need to sleep. And then he felt her stir.

He watched her wake, not wanting to rush her in any way. He suddenly wished that he wasn't there, that he wouldn't be the first thing she saw upon waking. It was too late. Her eyebrows creased together as if confused, and then her eyes opened. The sight threw him. Without her glasses his mother looked so frail and small, and her eyes were clouded with a pain reliever, or grief, not the clear blue-green he was used to seeing.

"Timothy?" He sat up, the chair creaked with the movement.

He nodded, wishing his father were there in his stead. He didn't want to have to say anything. He didn't think he could.

Shelagh tried to move, then winced, relaxing into her original position. She blinked and looked at him, then smiled sadly. "You did everything you could," she whispered, her voice raspy. He looked miserable, and she took his hand, squeezing it. "You did."

A tear rushed down his face. He was scared to speak, to breathe even. Not when she was looking at him like that. "They said you…they said that…"

She nodded, but said nothing. Her eyes were full and wet, but she wasn't crying. She held open her arms and Timothy went to her, putting his own arms around her if she were made of water and he didn't want to interrupt the stream. He didn't cry, but wanted to.

* * *

 _1933_

 _January hit her hot cheek like a slap as she flung the door open and tumbled outside, running away from the house. Her name was being called but she heard it through cotton ears. The grass was slippery with mud and she wore no shoes. It seemed wrong that it should be morning, that she should cry so violently with the sun out._

Shelagh!

 _At the end of the first field there was a whorled, damp wood fence, and she ran into it, feeling the cold planks push into her hips and across her chest. She looked straight ahead, the horizon was a blurry brown line covered in a layer of fog and the sky was clear with cold._

Shelagh! _Come back!_

 _She buried her wet face in her hands and cried for her mother, a mother whose voice would never again utter the name_ Shelagh.

 _Her throat burned and she wanted to scream, but didn't think it would properly convey the agony coiled within her._

 _She longed for a river, because all the running in the world couldn't really take her away from this place, from this day. But a river. She could be swept away and washed clean. Or so shocked by the cold, swiftly moving dark water that she would forget everything that had happened in the cottage._

 _Her imagined river would pull her unforgivingly away from this place, letting her keep only one memory. And in that instant all she wanted were the fields. In that moment she didn't want the people. Just the fields. Because the Earth couldn't die, could it?_

* * *

"I'm afraid that visiting hours are over, sir!" The nurse said, trying to hold him back. The man was breathing heavily, and his brow was sweaty. He pointed through the small window.

"That's my son, that's my wife."

The nurse looked over her shoulder, then stepped back from him. "You're Dr. Turner?"

He nodded. "Yes."

She smiled a tight, sad smile. "You can go in. Just for a few minutes, though. And your son will have to leave, too."

The immediate access made him even more anxious, and Patrick tried to calm himself before walking in. He straightened his jacket and took a deep breath, then followed the nurse inside the maternity ward. They walked to Shelagh's bed. Timothy was slouched over it, his head resting in the cradle of his arms, and her hand wasn't far from him. She was curled up, and seemed very small.

The nurse rubbed Timothy's arm, and he woke suddenly. Patrick noticed that his cheek was bruised and his lip swollen.

"Dad," Timothy said, standing. He looked taller than he had earlier in the day. "I'm sorry…about the car."

Shelagh began to stir again, and they all looked down at the sound of her voice. "Patrick," she whispered, and he moved past his son to fill his empty seat.

"Come on, Timothy," the nurse was saying. "I'm sure we can find you somewhere to rest until your father can take you home." She led him gently away, and Patrick took his wife's hand. Shelagh cleared her throat.

"What happ-"

"I had a miscarriage," she said quickly. Her voice was hoarse from crying, or from trying not to. It was as if someone had made a slipknot and suddenly tightened it around his heart.

"But-"

"Timothy drove us to the hospital. It was too late even before we got here." She looked up at him, and her eyes shone. "I'm sorry." It was said in a rush, the words falling to the floor and scattering there like dropped dice.

Silence fell between them, but it was full of hidden energy, like a drum that lay unplayed, but that at any moment could fracture the stillness of sound with a frightening _BANG!_

Patrick squeezed her hand and brought it to his mouth. "It's not your fault, Shelagh," he whispered, willing his voice to remain steady.

She gently pulled her hand out from his, and looked down. "I know." Her voice was quiet. She had thought that having him here would comfort her in some way, just having him beside her. But when she looked back up and saw the sadness in his eyes, she had never felt so empty. He sat next to her, and she lay on her side facing him. They stayed like that for a few moments, each feeling the same way but not knowing how to possibly tell each other. Feeling like flayed fish, gutted and laid over ice for the market with wide, dead eyes.

Patrick looked down at her and watched as a single tear trailed down from the corner of her red-rimmed eye to her ear. She didn't blink it away. His eyes stung like bleach, and she watched as one skated down his own cheek. It was silver in the low light.

"I won't ask if you're all right, because I know you aren't."

Another tear fell from her eye. Her face was pale, clear, and hid nothing from him. "No, I'm not."

Patrick heard the catch in her voice, and he sat up, leaning forward to take her in his arms, pulling her up. She gasped at the pain low in her abdomen, but held onto him so tightly that he couldn't put her down. There was more strength in her tonight than he had realized.

She put her face in his neck, eyes closed, and kissed him there. He rocked her, brushed his hand over the smoothness of her back as if painting a landscape. "I prayed so much for a baby. And He listened." Patrick nodded against her. "But I'm scared, Patrick."

"Why?" he asked quietly.

"Because I don't want to pray tonight. I don't think I can." She had used up all her energy in maintaining control for Timothy's sake, then for her own, and so now she cried, and he held her, rocking her gently back and forth like they were two in a rowboat, floating in the stillness of a forgotten pond.

* * *

The night was passing like a hundred years. Timothy waited in the hall outside the maternity ward, slouched against the wall in another uncomfortable chair. They had given him Angela, and his father would take them both home in ten minutes, the nurse had said. His sister lay slumped against him, her little body warm from the blanket they had wrapped around her. Two small white shoes lay on the seat next to him, and Timothy stroked one of her feet that hung out of the blanket. She curled her toes.

If he closed his eyes he would remember pulling his mother off the floor of that bathroom, ignoring the blood on the tiles, and rushing her out to his father's car, laying her in the back seat. He had run back in for Angela, who was screaming, and put her in the passenger seat. With shaking hands, he had started the car. It crackled to life, and he put his foot down on the first pedal he found. The car shot off, and Angela was bumped around beside him.

He knew where the hospital was, and took off on a warpath, trying to keep control of the car, trying to drown out the sound of Angela's wailing, or the sound she made when she fell to the floor of the passenger seat and bumped her head.

The car had screeched to a stop in front of the hospital's emergency room with two hubcaps missing and a dent across the front bumper. Three nurses had been there to help Shelagh out of the car and whisk Angela off to the children's wing. Timothy was left stranded, not knowing where to go, or who to ask for help. It was as if everything he had ever learned had left his head, and he was acting with pure instinct and no logic. He had smashed his mouth on the steering wheel at one point. Blood and saliva ran through his mouth and down his chin, and he walked inside after them. He saw Angela screaming in a nurse's arms, lunging towards Shelagh, who had been helped onto a gurney and was curled away in silent agony, the nurses beginning to wheel her away.

"Where are you taking them?" Timothy had asked, his voice thick with fear and blood. His hands kept shaking, and he watched, unable to move, as the nurses worked. No one seemed to take notice of him for a long time, though in reality it was only seconds that he stood there. A boy in a room full of women.

* * *

 _1931_

 _She didn't know what woke her that night, but when she went to the kitchen for a glass of water the house felt strangely still, empty. Shelagh went to her parents' room but found no one. She became anxious, and stood on a stool to glance out the kitchen window, which looked out to the barn. There was a light there that flickered. Still in her nightgown, she laced up her muddy boots in a clumsy, seven year-old's way, and took her mother's blue shawl from where it lay draped over a chair. She opened the door and walked down the small path to the barn. It was a mild night, and the moon lit her way._

 _At the far end of the barn stood her mother, who held a lantern up in front of her. There was a groan, and Shelagh heard her father say something. "Mummy?" she called, and her mother looked up at the sound of her voice. She was also wearing a nightgown with a fisherman's sweater over her shoulders._

 _"Shelagh! You should be in bed!" she said, but her eyes twinkled, so Shelagh trudged through the hay to join her parents. She heard her father say something again, but her mother shook her head. "No, she'll be all right."_

 _There was an air of excitement, and Shelagh leaned into her mother after she had passed all the other cows in their stalls. She turned to see what her father was doing. He was stroking the flank of one of their black cows who was moving uneasily from side to side. "That's a girl," her father said. He looked up and winked at his daughter. "This one's about to have a calf."_

 _Shelagh felt her mother's hand brush through her sleep-mussed hair, bringing it off her face. In front of her the large cow was groaning. "Is she hurting?"_

 _Both parents laughed. "Oh, she'll be hurting for a few minutes yet," her mother chuckled. Shelagh's father continued to help the cow, although she seemed to know just what to do. "But it's worth it in the end."_

 _Shelagh grimaced as the calf began to make an appearance. "Oh, but she's hurting!"_

 _Her mother squeezed her shoulder. "It's natural, dear. She'll forget all about it in a moment."_

 _"Will she?"_

 _The calf slipped out even more, and Shelagh's father smiled triumphantly as it fell out completely, helping to guide it to the ground. The cow turned almost immediately to her baby. "I think it has something to do with getting a beautiful baby at the end of all that pain. You just forget," Shelagh's mother said._

 _Her father was grinning as he left the new mother and calf to rejoin his own family, wiping his hands clean on his trousers. He picked Shelagh up and she perched on his hip. "This little one's going to need a name. Can you think of any?"_

 _Shelagh nodded. "Licorice," she said, thinking of the dark candy she sometimes got at Christmas._

 _Her parents chuckled, and her father kissed her. "There we have it. Now, back to bed, little one." Shelagh nodded, letting her head rest on his shoulder as they walked back. She rubbed at her sleepy eyes with scrunched fists._

* * *

Author's Note: So, this chapter was weird to write. I left out some of the more action-y bits and focused more on introspection and kind of...hoped some things were implied enough that you could follow along. I actually wrote everything except the first two sections tonight in about an hour. I can see it all in my head like a movie, but getting it onto paper (I write by hand first, then type)...that's different. It came out completely different from how I'd originally imagined writing it. I'm publishing about 10 minutes after finishing it, so sorry for any minor errors! Thanks for the reviews! It helps keep me going. I'm moving countries (!) in early September so I'm trying to finish this story as quickly as I can before life sweeps me away. Hope you'll stick this out till the end. I'd love to hear from you!

I listened to: "We Move Lightly" by Dustin O'Halloran, "Escaping The Camp" by Julian Maas, and "Gnossienne No. 1" by Satie


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter IV

"Mama! Up!" Angela said, walking into the kitchen from the sitting room, tugging at the purple hem of Shelagh's new apron which had replaced the bloodied yellow one. Shelagh looked down at her daughter, who was reaching up, her fists clenching and unclenching impatiently. A week of rest at home, the doctor had advised, but Shelagh was having none of it. She leaned down and picked Angela up, setting her on the kitchen counter.

"Will you help me with this?" Shelagh asked. "It's got to be ready before the boys get home," she added seriously. Angela nodded solemnly, her brown eyes wide. Her mother laughed, then turned back to the strawberry rhubarb pie. The edges of the crust were pinched neatly halfway around, like feathers.

"Oh!" Angela gasped, pointing at the gooey red center.

Shelagh raised her eyebrow, then dipped a finger into the center, licked it, and smiled. "Delicious!"

Angela kicked her feet against the lower cabinets in excitement, and licked Shelagh's offered finger, the syrupy pie filling staining her mouth a darker red. "Delicious!" she mimicked, and laughed at her mother's smile of delight at the new word.

"Now, we have to make this crust look the same on both sides," Shelagh said, demonstrating how to pinch the soft crust together. Angela copied her with clumsy fingers, strawberry rhubarb filling sticking to her hands in the process. Petula Clark was on the wireless, and Shelagh hummed along, watching her daughter go about this simple process and thinking that there was nothing more lovely in this world than a child discovering something new in their world.

* * *

Timothy hurried home. He had been told by his father to come straight home after school. To keep his mother company until Patrick had finished his rounds. It was five days after Timothy had ruined the car, after the hellish hours at the hospital, after he'd watched his father clean the bathroom until there was no trace of what had happened. When he mentioned that her apron was missing the morning she was to come home his father had given him a one pound note to go to the shops and find another one, any color, to replace it. Blushing, Timothy had picked the first one he found. It was plain, the color labeled as "lavender", not flowered like the other one had been. Yellow would not look the same to him for many years.

The sound of giggles greeted him when he opened the door, and he hung up his jacket, following their sound to the bathroom. Angela had bubbles on her head, and there were even some in his mother's hair as she bathed his little sister. It was a treat for Angela to spend whole days with her mother.

Angela pointed at Timothy, then clapped her hands. "Timothy!" she announced, and Shelagh turned, smiling openly.

"Hello, dear. I'll just finish up with Angela so it will be quieter while you do your homework." She stood from the floor and reached for a towel, then frowned at the expression on Timothy's face, that of concern. "Are you all right, Timothy?"

He shrugged. "I'm fine. Happy to see you."

Shelagh chuckled. "You don't look it! Did something happen at school?" She went back to Angela, washing the bubbles off with warm bathwater and then helping her up, wrapping her in a towel and lifting her out of the tub.

"No, nothing happened. I'll get started on my homework."

His mother shrugged, then watched as Angela went to her brother. "Books," she said confidently. Timothy reached down to touch her nose, and she wriggled away.

"That's right, Angela. Lots of books!"

* * *

Patrick ducked into the sitting room to find his son sitting at the small table, apparently buried in homework. Timothy looked up at the sound of footsteps.

"Where is she?" Patrick asked softly.

Timothy gestured down the hall with his head. "Reading to Angela."

His father sighed, then went to pull out a chair and sit with his son. "History again tonight, is it?" he asked, looking down at Timothy's notes. His son nodded.

"I finished ages ago."

Patrick wrinkled his forehead. "Then why are you still sitting here? How's your mother?"

"She's fine. She made a pie with Angela this afternoon."

There was something in Timothy's voice that made his words sound dull. Patrick could hear Shelagh's voice softly talking to Angela. Timothy sighed, putting down his pencil.

"I don't understand it, Dad!" he exclaimed in a whisper. "How can she be fine? _Happy_ even? It's like nothing's happened."

Patrick shook his head. "Your mother may process things differently than you do. Perhaps it's easier for her to move ahead with things. And you have to remember, she doesn't remember much from that night," he tried to explain. "You do."

"There was so much blood," Timothy said quietly. "And in the hospital…" He closed his eyes, then opened them to look up at his father. "Her face was white as paper. And then two days later she comes home and it's like nothing's happened. 'Let's bake a pie! Let's read a bedtime story!'" He chuffed out a laugh of disbelief.

Patrick smoothed out Timothy's hair. His son was growing up quickly, and even more so in the past week it seemed. But he would forever be the small boy who loved football, the boy who memorized the human skeleton at eight years old. "You don't remember it, Timothy, but it was the same for us just a few years ago."

Timothy's eyes cleared as he realized what comparison his father was making. "When I had polio."

Patrick nodded. "We stayed by you in the hospital every moment we could. She was with you whenever I couldn't be. She yelled at Mr. Cooper to drive you to the hospital."

"I don't remember that," Timothy remarked, surprised that their neighbor had never mentioned it.

"Just like she doesn't remember you driving her there. Maybe a foggy memory, but nothing more."

The line of worry that had frequented Timothy's brow for the past week smoothed. "She wasn't even my mother yet when I had polio." Patrick smoothed his son's hair again. They heard the door to Timothy and Angela's room open further as Shelagh slipped out.

"Someone would like two goodnight kisses," she said, and brightened at the sight of her husband. He and Timothy got up from the table to go to Angela. Shelagh looked up and received a gentle forehead kiss from Patrick as Timothy walked past. "I'm glad you're home."

"So am I." Patrick gave her another kiss. "Now, you sit down. I can heat up my own dinner once Angela relinquishes us." Shelagh smiled, and they both knew that she wouldn't sit down until his dinner was warmed and ready.

* * *

 _1942_

 _Her childhood room would look the same with her gone. A suitcase was propped against her bed carrying only what she would need. She looked around slowly, committing the room to memory. There was a small desk in front of the only window. The white paint had begun to chip long ago, but she thought it added to its simple charm. She sat in the chair and opened the only drawer which ran the length of the desk. Inside there were used graphed lesson books from school, beside them an old postcard that had never been written on, Monet's lilies had faded with time._

 _Shelagh picked up her mother's shiny pen, the one she'd thought was so special because the cartridges were sold in the shops. The first month she'd had it she was going into town once a week for a new one, tagging Shelagh along. It hadn't been used in nine years._

 _She cleared her throat and stood from the desk, then went out from the room and into the kitchen. All the dishes were clean and drying, she'd done them herself. A towel was folded neatly over the faucet that ran only cold water. Outside, the light was already fading, although there was a peachy tint to the horizon line that rarely appeared. She'd grown up with foggy sunsets._

 _The back door was open, and there was a chill. She took the fisherman's sweater and shoved her feet into her muddy galoshes, then stood on the steps, scanning the farm for what suddenly shook her as the last time._

 _Shelagh walked downhill on the small, winding path, forged by years of countless footsteps, and past the empty stables. The pigs shuffled in their pen as she walked by, disturbed but uninterested in her. The fields hadn't been tidy since they'd gotten rid of the cows last year, and when she reached them she saw how tall the grass was. It swished across her boots as she walked through the first field, following the smushed path cut by someone else earlier that afternoon who wore bigger shoes than her. The gate was open, and leaning on the fence at the end of the second field stood her father. The grasses, gently shifting in an evening breeze, were like the sea, and him a small rowboat tethered to a pier._

 _She brushed her hair behind her ears and forged ahead, drawing the wool of the jumper tighter around her. It was the tail end of September, and the colder months were fast approaching. She walked slowly and purposefully toward him, the wind blowing her light hair across her face, and when she had crossed the second field, where the grass grew even longer, she saw her father looking at the horizon line carved by a nearby hill. He turned at the sound of her, blinked as if awakened from a daydream, and uncrossed his arms. There were tears in his eyes._

"Dad?" _She went to him_.

"I thought I was looking at your mother," _he said, overcome, and ran a hand down her arm, over the heavy jumper his wife had loved so much. Shelagh smiled sadly. They stood together side by side, and she tried to find the spot on which his eyes lingered in front of them, even as the sky continued to fade._

"Sometimes I look out and think I'll see her. Just in the garden picking wildflowers. Or maybe she'll walk to me with a chicken egg in each palm, still warm." _He paused for a moment._ "We really loved each other, you know. And when you came along it was like I'd been given even more of her to love. I used to watch you two together, Shelagh." _He wiped a hand across his eyes and pulled her closer with the other around her shoulders. Shelagh subtly turned them and slowly began to lead him back to the cottage._

"You were so small when you were born, I didn't think you'd live. But she never believed it. She always told me, 'You'll see, she's strong'." _She took his hand_.

 _Shelagh smiled to herself as they walked through the fields, now in silence. He wasn't crying anymore. His hand was warm in hers, or maybe her hand had warmed his. Holding hands was a way of speaking when no words could possibly convey the message properly. At the beginning of the small footpath her father let her hand go._ "You have her voice," _he said suddenly_. "Whenever you talk, I hear her voice."

 _She stopped with him, and he tipped her chin up to look at him. The only thing he had given her was her eyes. A clear green-blue. Her mother's had been brown._ "Sometimes I don't talk to you because I'm afraid of your voice. Maybe you'll say the exact same sentence she said once, and I'll think it's her."

 _Shelagh shook her head, and her eyes were red-rimmed._ "I'm not a ghost, Dad," _she whispered, her voice breaking._

 _He ran a thumb across her cheek. It was rough with a lifetime of hard work._ "And you're still leaving, then?"

 _She nodded._ "Tomorrow."

Shelagh turned in bed, uneasy. It was a memory she'd never relived. Suddenly she was standing at the gate again the next morning, looking back at the cottage before she left home, seeing him through the window. She knew she was dreaming, yet in her dream she closed her eyes.

 _Wood smoke rises from the chimney, and through the window she can almost see her mother leaning over a table. She runs toward the house. She can feel the cold wind against her cheeks. She reaches out her hand._

And because her head was full of dreams, for a moment she believed she could open the door and go right through it.

* * *

She pulled back the sheets and slithered out of bed, leaving the room silently on tiptoe even though the carpeting disguised most noises. Even in the dark she was able to find Patrick's coat, to slip her hand deep into the inner pocket and find his tin of Henley's. She was fourteen again, sneaking a cigarette in the round quiet of two in the morning. She lit it with a kitchen match.

The front window in sitting room didn't open quietly, so she perched on the counter as Angela had before and directed the first exhale out the window. Her lungs warmed instantly, and the unsettling dream faded away with each stream of smoke. It looked like breath on a cold day.

When she was young, at school, angered by the stress of education or wound tight in adolescent stubbornness, Shelagh sometimes wished she could forget how much she loved her mother. It was an eerie thought she came across on the darkest nights, when she held her own hand and pretended that one was her mother's.

But then, to actually forget —could feel, at times, like the slaughter of a beautiful bird who chose, by nothing short of grace, to make a habitat of her heart. She had heard once that this pain could be converted, as it were, by accepting "the fundamental impermanence of all things". This acceptance bewildered her: sometimes it seemed an act of will; at others, of surrender. Often she felt herself rocking between them, seasick.

 _I love you, Angela._

 _Why?_

"I thought we'd given up smoking." She could hear the indulging smile in Patrick's voice even before she saw him through her clouded vision.

"I thought we had, too," she said. "Only I found some in your coat."

He shrugged. "I keep them there to remind me not to smoke them."

Shelagh's stomach dropped. "Oh, I didn't know! Look at me!" She stamped out the cigarette on the windowsill, embarrassed. Patrick looked at her, then went to lean against the counter. It was odd that she should be taller than him, sitting on the counter.

"I had a dream," she said, her legs dangling. "It was so real I could taste it."

He sometimes couldn't believe how lucky he was to witness this side of her. The Shelagh that perched on a countertop in the middle of the night after stealing a cigarette, the woman that was lost without her glasses, yet forgot them constantly while at home, the Shelagh that sometimes held their baby and swayed gently to music during the BBC's classical music hour.

"What about?" he asked.

Shelagh sighed. "About my father." She took his offered hand and was hopped quietly off the counter. The floor was cold beneath her bare feet. She wrapped her arms around him and put her head sideways on his chest as if to hear his heart. "It's strange," she said, her voice muffled slightly by the fabric of his nightshirt. "I keep dreaming of my childhood. They're not bad dreams. Just…unexpected."

 _I love you,_

 _I love you as the birds love morning._

 _I love you as plants love the sun._

 _As travelers love the stars._

 _Like a field of flowers._

 _I love you._

Author's Note: Seriously, I wrote everything except the flashback scene in about an hour. All writing comes to me when I'm supposed to be packing up my apartment and moving! I'm not even going to dig deep and research to make sure there aren't unintentional historical inaccuracies. We'll all just have to deal. I had some notes on how this chapter would go, but I completely took a different path and...here you go. A special thank you goes out to **thatginchygal** over on Tumblr. You can find me there as **josietyrell**. I would love to hear from you! Not much really happens in this chapter. Hopefully this fic isn't getting too slow and boring.

For anyone who's interested, here's the music I listened to while writing this: "Schöner fremder Mann", sung by Connie Francis (scene with Angela), "King Of Hearts, Le Repos", by Georges Delerue (Timothy coming home, conversation with Patrick), "Syriana (piano solo)", by Alexandre Desplat (dream scene), and "Nocturne No. 21 in C Minor, Op. Posth.," by Chopin (night scene).


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter V

They walked hand in hand to the surgery on Monday morning, and with the unapologetic calls of the dock birds and the crisp, sunny morning, Shelagh felt like a girl on the arm of her sweetheart. She even blushed, she felt so light inside. The car was still being repaired, and Patrick planned on picking it up during lunch. Neither mentioned its absence.

"If you get too tired, I want you to tell me," Patrick said seriously.

Shelagh rolled her eyes. "I'm just the same as other women who've miscarried, Patrick. The body heals quickly. I'll be fine."

The word 'miscarried' stung more than it used to, especially when she used it so casually. The surgery appeared around the corner, there was already a line forming at the door. The little boy with his arm in a splint waved at Doctor Turner, and Shelagh squeezed his hand. "Everything is back to how it was, Patrick. Let's not dwell on it."

He squeezed her hand back, uplifted by her confidence in the face of grief, yet also wary of it. His wife was almost too good at hiding her true feelings, sometimes. It had taken years to peel away some of her protective layers and discover the woman inside. She was one of the strongest people he knew, yet one of the most sensitive. The two qualities were like a Venn diagram, and when they overlapped she could become hurt, even if she didn't admit it.

* * *

A man with a toothache was referred to a dentist, but would likely never follow up on the appointment. Two women were diagnosed with hay fever. A little boy had his healed arm unwrapped and skipped through the surgery in reckless joy. A baby with an ear infection. A teenage girl with a twisted ankle. The patients kept walking in. And Shelagh was glad of it. Work meant a busy silence in her head. Fully focussed on others, she could block out any thoughts that weren't absolutely necessary to the situation. She didn't want to think about the dreams, she didn't want to think about the fact that now her uniform was now too loose and that she would have to alter it that evening. She was grateful that barely anyone had known about the baby, and that those who did had the intelligence to not pry into why she'd been gone for a week.

Later in the afternoon, when the surgery had all but emptied, the telephone rang, and Shelagh put the receiver to her ear without even looking up from the patient list on her desk. "Good afternoon," she said.

"Shelagh?"

She frowned, recognizing the anxious voice. "Yes? Barbara, what is it?"

"Virginia Wood. She lives on Vine Street, at the end." The young nurse's voice was breathy. "Can you send the doctor immediately?"

Shelagh stood up from the desk. The surgery was empty and Patrick was on his rounds. "I'm sorry, he's out at the moment. What's wrong?"

Barbara sighed. "I've called Nonnatus and Nurse Crane is on her way, but the baby's lay is transverse. I need at least one other, and the contractions are coming every five minutes."

The receiver suddenly felt heavy in her hand, but Shelagh made a decision. "I'll be there in a moment. Try and keep Mrs. Wood calm."

Vine Street was only two blocks away. She remembered Mrs. Wood from last week at the clinic. It was always the easy pregnancies with no apparent complications that ended in difficult births. She ducked into a birthing room and grabbed a gown for herself, scribbled a note on paper as to her whereabouts, and walked out of the surgery, locking it behind her. Adrenaline thrilled in her veins, she felt like she had years ago as a young nurse in training. The sensation threw her.

* * *

"Hello, Mr. Wood," Shelagh greeted amicably, walking into the small flat. His face was ashen.

"Why'd she send for another midwife? What's wrong with Ginny?"

Shelagh forced a light smile to try and put him at ease. In the next room, a woman was crying out in pain. "It's always good to have a second set of hands. I'm sure Nurse Gilbert has everything under control, but I'll just pop in and see if I can help."

Mr. Wood nodded, taking a nervous drag on his cigarette as he watched her go into the bedroom.

Barbara looked up from her patient, who was leaning onto the bed, propped up by her arms, her face red. "Oh, thank God!"

Shelagh set down her bag and took off her suit jacket until she wore only the light cream blouse underneath, putting her arms through the white gown, letting Barbara help her with the ties at the back.

"Thank you," she said. "Now, Mrs. Wood, I hear that baby's misbehaving a bit."

Virginia groaned again and tried to stand. "Nurse says it's not laying right."

"I think that might be the case," Shelagh said. "I know you're in pain but you must lie down so I can help turn baby around." She looked at Barbara. "Help her."

Barbara coaxed Mrs. Wood onto the bed, even as she protested. "Have you ever delivered a transverse baby?" she whispered as their patient lay down.

"Once," Shelagh said quietly. She palpated Mrs. Wood's abdomen.

"Can you fix him? I don't think I can stand it any longer!"

Shelagh found the baby's head and legs. "How long have you been in labour, Mrs. Wood?"

"Six hours!"

Barbara was grasping onto Virginia's hand. "She's ten centimetres already." The mother moaned with another contraction.

"All right," Shelagh said, taking charge of the situation. "I am going to turn your baby, Mrs. Wood, and I need you to stay absolutely still. Once he's turned, you'll be able to push. In the meantime, just hold tight to Nurse Gilbert's hand."

Mrs. Wood nodded, fear in her eyes. Barbara looked down at her. "Don't be afraid, Virginia. Mrs. Turner knows what she's doing."

Shelagh kicked off her heels, feeling ridiculous in the crêped blouse and blue skirt she wore underneath the white gown. She began to shift the baby, who cooperated surprisingly well and was easy to move. She tried to block out the sounds of agony coming from the end of the bed. Within a few minutes the baby was in the proper position. "Is that any better, Mrs. Wood?" Shelagh asked, looking up from her work.

Virginia shook her head. "I can't feel a bloody difference, I just want it out! Can I start pushing?"

Shelagh lifted up the sheet that was draped rather sloppily over the woman's knees. She could see the baby's head. "This baby's a fast mover, Virginia. You can start pushing with the next contraction."

Barbara looked at Shelagh with concern. After a long labor and a difficult baby, there was a chance the baby wouldn't survive the birth. Virginia pushed, and immediately her baby began to crown. This was always the terrifying, exhilarating moment in midwifery. There was nothing like knowing you were helping a child into the world, knowing yours would be the first hands to cradle it.

The door opened in the front hall and soon Nurse Crane appeared, holding her own black bag. She looked at the scene in front of her. "Did I come to the wrong house?" Mrs. Turner was halfway on the bed, guiding the baby out wearing a surgical gown, her hair perfectly curled in a French twist, her cheeks flushed.

Barbara shook her head. "No, but Mrs. Turner got here before you did."

"That's right, Virginia. One more big, big push and I think you'll meet baby!"

Nurse Crane set down her bag and moved next to Mrs. Turner, watching the rest of the delivery.

"He's going to have a lot of explaining to do once I get my hands on him!" Virginia said, laughing with exhaustion. Barbara smiled, and with the next push Shelagh eased a small, squirming baby into the world.

"Might want to rephrase that, Virginia," Nurse Crane said as Shelagh cleaned the baby and cut the cord. "It's a little girl."

Mrs. Wood laughed another exhausted laugh and collapsed back onto the bed. Shelagh wasn't moving. She'd set the baby down on the bed.

Nurse Crane looked sideways and noticed that Mrs. Turner's face had gone white. It looked like she was about to be sick. The baby was mewling in front of her, perfectly whole and healthy. Nurse Crane leaned down, took the baby, and handed it to Virginia, who smiled and cooed at her new arrival.

"Well done!" Barbara was saying.

Nurse Crane turned back to Mrs. Turner, who was rooted to the bed.

"What's wrong with her?" Virginia said, looking up.

Shelagh met her eyes, but struggled to speak. "Nothing's wrong with her," Nurse Crane said, taking Shelagh's arm and pulling her firmly from the foot of the bed. "Just a bit tired is all. Well done, Mrs. Wood." Shelagh stood uneasily on the floor, an inch shorter than usual without her heels.

"Come with me, Mrs. Turner," Nurse Crane said, and had to pull Shelagh's gown so that she would follow her. They went into the hallway, where Mr. Wood was waiting anxiously for news.

"I heard it crying," he said. "Can I go in?" He saw Shelagh. "Why's she crying? What's wrong with it?"

"Go right in, Mr. Wood, everything's perfectly in order. You've got a healthy baby girl." Nurse Crane took Shelagh outside onto the steps and put her hands firmly on the young woman's shoulders. Shelagh was crying, and didn't seem to be aware of what was happening around her.

"Excuse me in advance for the term, but what in God's name is the matter, Mrs. Turner?"

Shelagh looked up, lost, and tried to speak. "What were you thinking, going on a delivery when you're just out of hospital?"

Shelagh seemed to calm slightly, and looked at Nurse Crane in confusion. "I've been out of hospital for a week! I'm a trained midwife!"

Nurse Crane shook her head. "Not when you're still grieving, you're not."

"Grieving?" Shelagh asked, taking off her glasses and wiping her eyes. She looked suspicious.

Nurse Crane sighed. She rubbed Shelagh's shoulders in what she hoped was a comforting gesture. "Doctor Turner told me what happened."

Shelagh shrugged out of Nurse Crane's hands. "Well, he shouldn't have done."

"I think, in this case, it was for the best," she said.

Shelagh smoothed the tears from her face once more and put her glasses on again. "I'm capable of doing my job, Nurse Crane. I don't need my husband to make that decision for me."

"I agree," the nurse said, holding a hand up in surrender. "But to be honest, Mrs. Turner, you're as stubborn as anything. It's a good thing," she added, "but sometimes even the strongest people need time to rest. I believe he told me because he knew you'd never admit to needing a break." She smiled at Shelagh. "I'm sure you know by now that doctors make the worst patients."

Shelagh nodded in concession, calmer now.

"Well, that also applies to nurses, midwives, and doctor's _wives_!"

* * *

The car was parked outside the flat when she arrived home, shiny new hubcaps and all. It was like nothing had ever happened. Shelagh carried her folded nurse's uniform in her bag, having gone back for it after delivering Virginia Wood's baby. The bag felt heavy on her arm, and she reminded herself that she would have to alter the garment tonight.

She slipped inside, the door shut behind her. The scrape of a chair, and Timothy's head poked into the hallway. "Mum! She's home!" he said, looking back into the sitting room.

Nodding, she took off her jacket and walked through, laying it and her bag down on the sofa. Angela sat in her pajamas, eating carefully cut up pieces of a ham sandwich at the table. Patrick stood from his chair and went to embrace her, but Shelagh stepped aside as he approached her, dodging him. "I see you found some dinner, then. I'm sorry I wasn't home to make it for you."

Patrick was confused at her behavior, but more concerned as to why she had been late getting back. "I saw your note. There was a delivery?"

She nodded and went to the kitchen to put the kettle on. Timothy sat down again, sensing that his parents needed to speak alone. He tried to listen to them in the kitchen.

"Tim? No more," Angela said, putting the last piece of her sandwich down on the plate.

* * *

"Yes, Mrs. Wood on Vine Street," Shelagh said, taking a cup out for herself and putting the kettle on. "The baby was transverse and Nurse Gilbert needed help."

"There was no one else to go? Didn't she call Nonnatus?" He leaned against the counter, nursing his own cup.

"Yes, she did. But I got there before Nurse Crane did. I delivered the baby." Her lip quivered, and she fought to keep it still. She looked up at Patrick. He searched her face for an answer to what was wrong. "How many people know, Patrick? Why did you tell them?"

He sighed, putting his cup down. "Shelagh, I'm sorry, I just-"

She shook her head. "And Nurse Crane seemed to imply that I might not be fit for working yet. Something she more or less said came from you."

He placed his hand on hers, which was braced on the counter, but she didn't turn her palm to touch his. "I just thought you might need more time." He paused, considering his words carefully. "It was a late-term loss, Shelagh. I've seen mothers lay in bed for weeks afterwards, even after their bodies have healed. You seemed almost _too_ fine, _too_ well."

"You can never know everything about someone," she said quietly, wishing it weren't so true. The kettle began to whistle, and she poured herself a cup of tea. He watched her burn her tongue when she sipped it too quickly. "Everyone seems to be waiting for me to break."

"No, we're not," he said. She moved her hand away from his and walked away from him, then turned.

"Well, you'll be pleased to know that I _did_ break! I did!" It was the first time he had seen her openly cross. "I held that baby in my hands and thought, _Oh, why would God take this from me?_."

His heart clenched for her. "I felt frozen, and angry, and sick, and Nurse Crane had to take me outside so I wouldn't upset Mrs. Wood and her husband. I felt like an absolute fool."

Patrick watched her pacing. She put her hands on her hips and looked up, as if the sky could explain the feelings inside her. "You know it wasn't your fault, Shelagh."

"I know, but it certainly feels like it." Before he could interject, she continued. "If I had rested more, or paid attention to the stitch in my side that morning… But I was determined to work just as I'd always done. It was stupid."

Patrick felt shipwrecked. Wanting to touch her, to comfort her, yet knowing she wouldn't welcome it. She looked him directly in the eye. "My mother died from a hemorrhage after giving birth to a stillborn baby." The words came out like nettle stings, one after the other in quick succession.

Silence fell between them. In the sitting room, Timothy's tongue felt like wet cardboard, rough at the edges. He stood and led Angela from the table and down the hall, into their room. Shelagh turned her head at the sound of them leaving, having forgotten that they were only in the next room. "From the moment I found out I was pregnant I was terrified. I didn't allow myself to feel enough joy. Only excitement. But underneath there was always the fear that _something_ would happen." She looked up at Patrick, miserable. "And in the end it did."

"I'm sorry," he said, meaning it with all his heart.

She went to him and allowed herself to relax into a forgiving embrace. "Me, too." She placed a kiss to the center of his chest, then smoothed out the fabric of his shirt. She looked up at him. "I hate being upset with you, I always feel terrible afterwards."

He smiled. "Every time one of us is cross at the other we should make silly faces." He stuck his tongue out at her.

Shelagh chuckled. "Why?"

"Because then we'll realize that whatever we're about to quarrel over isn't ever as serious as it seems."

She stuck her tongue out at him.

"And what do you think now?" Patrick asked, opening the door that led to the hallway and letting her walk ahead of him. She turned and looked at him contemplatively.

"I think I'm getting better," she said, "but I should let myself feel the grief, not push it away."

* * *

 _1940, New Year's Eve_

 _She was sixteen, Marie and Sarah a year older. Waiting for midnight, their three heads converging over spiced cider at the end of the long table: Sarah's cropped hair, the dusty blue-black of a crow; Marie's, ash-blonde as Finnish birch, woven into an elaborate braid and perfectly twisted like golden bread; and Shelagh, with hair the red of young foxes crossing a field of snow. Waiting to be asked to dance like pawns before the player moved them, choosing this path and that._

 _Shelagh was willing herself to not run her hands over the fabric of her dress. Earlier in the evening she had stood on a stool at Marie's house, trying to catch the mirror in her borrowed dress. Used to wearing thick jumpers and skirts for school, or swapping for trousers on the farm when the cows' stalls needed mucking, the silky fabric made her feel almost naked. It was her first dance. They had smudged the tiniest bit of Marie's mother's lipstick on their index fingers and rubbed it into the soft apples of their cheeks. Like blushing porcelain dolls they had entered the dance hall in town. There were parents that Shelagh recognized, teachers, some shopkeepers, all mingling at the sides. And the young people all in the middle, dancing. The younger ones awkwardly, both girls and boys not knowing quite what to do. The young, married couples danced comfortably, like fine wine on the tongue._

 _Sarah was asked to dance by a tall boy, almost a man. Shelagh and Marie giggled, but Sarah walked out with him with enviable confidence, oozing calmness and sophistication. It was almost midnight. Shelagh didn't care if she danced or not, just watching was enough. It was like going to the cinema. She felt lucky to even be in the same room with all the happy energy of a holiday and dance wrapped into one. Marie went to dance with a school friend, and Shelagh was left alone by the punch._

 _The dress was beautiful, she felt like twirling in it just to show her ankles and the shiny shoes underneath. There was tinsel, the smell of pine from Christmas, wrapped paper ring chains draped over the piano. Nineteen-forty-one was three minutes away. Marie came back, tipsy with joy, and pulled Shelagh to dance with her._

It was a beautiful dream.

It seemed like a scene in a glass globe. Shelagh wanted to turn it over and set the snow to swirling. She wanted to shout to her young self, S _top! Don't be in such a hurry to peel back the petals of the future. It will be here soon enough, and it won't be quite the bloom you expect. Just stay there, in that precious moment, at the hinge of time!_ But at sixteen she was in love with the Future and all that it held, in love with the idea of Fate, of being in love. There's nothing more romantic to the young -until its dogs sink their teeth into your calf and pull you to the ground.

* * *

 _He took her hand and pulled her roughly back from the car. The doors closed loudly in the wide quiet, and headlights cut through the air at alternating diagonals in front of them as Marie's father reversed the car down their graveled path. Winter cold made her nose run, and she sniffed, the noise muffled by the scarf wrapped around her neck._

"Have you been smoking?" _her father asked, sniffing the air around her as they walked inside. There had been a fair share of smoke in the dance hall. He closed the door, and it seemed to close more loudly than usual._

"No." _Shelagh unwrapped her scarf from around her neck and pulled off her cashmere gloves. She took off the lovely, black borrowed coat, hung it up by the door next to the heavy jumpers and work coats._

"Did you have something to drink?" _He asked, taking his own coat off and going to tend to the fire. It was low, mostly embers, it was cold inside_.

"It's New Years Eve, Dad. I had champagne." _She went to the kitchen and picked up two logs from the pile that she'd stacked neatly the day before._

 _He watched her._ "Champagne." _The word was bitter in his mouth, and she knew it was because they couldn't afford it themselves. He took the wood from her with impatient hands and went to the hearth, sparks flew as he made up another fire. Inside there was no tinsel, no tree, no paper chains. No hint that a holiday might have passed except the small music box in Shelagh's room that played Silent Night when wound._

"You're bloody lucky you didn't freeze in that," _he said, looking at her again. Shelagh's cheeks were flushed now not with joy but with anger._

"I enjoyed myself tonight, Dad," _she said, still shivering as she stood there in Marie's blue dress_. "For once I didn't have to spend New Years at home, crying, thinking about Mum." _He scoffed_. "It feels like a tomb here, Dad! All you do is think about Mum, but she's not here anymore! It's just you and me!"

 _He put a hand up_. "Go to your room. Go to bed."

 _Shelagh felt pain well up behind her eyes. The prelude to tears_. "You stopped loving me after Mum died. But I'm all you've got left!" _Her chest was close to bursting with the agony of not crying, of speaking the truth after all the years of silence bottled up in her._ "You barely talk to me, barely look at me. I won't be here forever, Dad." _She bit her lip._ "And neither will you. At some point one of us will have to forgive the other for dwelling over something that was no one's fault."

"Stop talking." _Her father said quietly. He prodded at the fire with a worn poker. The room was minutely warmer now. Shelagh turned and went to her bedroom, lighting the lamp with a cold match and sitting at her desk. She picked at her cuticles, and felt sick. Her mother looked out at her from the silver picture frame, a smile that Shelagh herself was growing into wearing._

 _After a moment of reflection, thinking that she shouldn't have said what she'd just said, yet knowing that it needed to be said, Shelagh stood and went to her dresser. She unzipped the dress and stepped out of it, marveling again at the expensive material, draping it over her desk chair so as to not wrinkle it. A flannel nightgown and thick socks later and she was ready for bed. She sat on the edge of it and by the low light of the lamp took the pins out of her hair and braided it neatly._

Shelagh saw her young self there, staring quietly into the lamp's flame, a girl both fiery and shy, awkward and feigning sophistication in hopes of being thought mysterious, so that people would long to discover her secrets. The girl she played in front of the mirror. Wanting to be like Sarah, like Marie, older and more confident. Shelagh wanted her to stay in that precious moment before the world changed, before her future assembled like brilliant horses loaded into a starting gate. _Wait!_

 _Her younger self looked up. As if she sensed Shelagh there in the room, a vague but troubling presence. She swore she caught a glimpse of her in the lamp's glass -the woman from the future, neither young nor old, bathed in joy and grief, wearing her own two eyes. A shudder passed through the young girl like a draft. She finished her braid, tucked herself into bed, and blew out the lamp. She was bathed in darkness, but stayed awake for a long time. She knew her father would never sleep this night. He never did_.

* * *

Author's Note: Whew! There it is. As usual, cranked this out late at night. I got so much encouragement in writing this chapter from some great gals on Tumblr, you know who you are :) Let me know what you think of this, I'd love to hear from you. Also, a note: I read on some character wiki that Shelagh was born in 1924, so I'm using that for age reference. Someone on Tumblr told me that she would have actually been born in 1926. Let's just work with what I've got going.

Music listened to: 'The Nutcracker, Op.71: No.14 Pas de deux: Intrada, Variation I-II, Coda", Tchaikovsky (dance scene, this is a recognizable and BEAUTIFUL piece), "Harvest Time", Thomas Newman (young Shelagh sitting in her room flashback).


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter VI

1930

 _They were at the seaside, the air was salty and thick in her mouth. Barefoot even though it was too cold, but she loved the feel of the grainy sand between her toes. The crash and pull of the waves. The caws from overhead, gulls floating effortlessly on the breeze coasting from the ocean. She went to the shiny line where sand met water, stepped into the wet sand and watched as the ocean raced to cover her feet. And when it touched her skin she screamed. Red welts sprang up on her feet, ankles, legs, the sea was boiled water. She screamed as the boils covered the sensitive skin of her belly, her arms, up to her throat. She cried out._

 _Someone was shaking her._ "Shelagh! What are you screaming about?"

 _Her mother, the moon on her tousled hair, glazing her quilted robe. The flood of light as she lit the lamp. Her fingers on Shelagh's face like a blind woman, reading._ "You have a fever." _Piling the blankets back onto her when she was already so hot._ "Henry!"

 _The blankets were peeled back, urgent murmurings. A rough palm on her brow, her neck_. "She's burning up," _her father said. Icy air as her sweat-soaked nightgown was stripped off._

"Oh, God!" _Her mother's voice, wounded at the sight of her daughter's red-rashed chest. Shelagh moaned again, it was so hot. She couldn't breathe through the salty air. Couldn't open her mouth._

 _Her father pulled another flannel nightgown over her head, helping guide her limp limbs through the sleeves._ "We have to move her," _he said, picking her up in his arms, taking her to the front room, by the low fire, a quilt was wrapped around her, she stayed cradled in his arms like an infant._

"The beach," _Shelagh croaked deliriously. Her mother was adding wood to the fire._

"We need to break her fever," _she said, standing and going to her daughter, stroking sweaty hair away from her forehead. Shelagh suddenly turned her head to the side, into her father's chest, she began to weep. The world was so loud, so hot, so bright._ "Shelagh, listen to me."

"No." _Her throat was so raw. She twisted again in his arms._

 _Her mother's cool hand against her cheek._ "Just lie still."

"Oh, please!" _She threw off the covers, tried to prop herself up, but she felt so heavy, weak as water. Her mother did something with the blankets, turning the edge of the quilt, making a smooth edge over the blanket stitching. Such a loving gesture, even in its smallness. Shelagh looked at her mother through big, wet eyes, in impossible pain._

"We need some aspirin," _her mother was saying._ "Something for her to drink, too, some water, no, tea. And a cloth. Her lips are all chapped." _She rose and went to the kitchen. Shelagh looked up at her father and suddenly felt very light in his arms. He held her small hand._

"It's all right."

"Am I dying?"

 _He shook his head, rocking her slightly._ "No."

 _She fell into an uneasy sleep there, by the warmth of the fire, cocooned. Then she was being gently shaken awake. Her mother settled into a wooden chair pulled up close to them and pressed her cool hand to Shelagh's brow, the scent of lavender soap on her wrist carrying up._ "When I was a very little girl, and I was sick, my mother used to put her hand across my forehead, like this, and sing me a song." _She sang, although her voice shook with hidden worry._ " _The Elfin Knight stands on yon hill._ " _Her voice pulled Shelagh into consciousness, a moth to the flame_. " _Blawing his horn loud and shrill..._ _And the wind has blawin my plaid awa_."

 _Shelagh thought about the haze of fog over the crest of the hill across the fields. When the spring lavender was blooming, and the new leaves came out on the ivy vines. Her mother's bare night face, the eyelids shining in the flickering firelight, her voice clear now as she sung even when going to get the kettle._

 _The tea came after a moment. A damp cloth. Aspirin, scratchy and bitter. They propped her on pillows on the little sofa, her father kneeling beside it with the cloth held to her head, her mother just at the edge, careful not to sit on her legs. Tea was tipped to her lips, too hot, some spilled on the sheet. Her mother filled a spoonful, and blew on it, her lips pursed. Her mouth opened as she spooned it into Shelagh's, her hand underneath to catch drips. Camomile._

* * *

 _Hours later, the remnants of a song still dancing through her head. The coolness of morning across her forehead and dirty hair. Her throat ached for water. She shifted her legs underneath the heavy quilt, then looked down. Her mother was draped over her, her auburn hair twisted messily into a bun, kneeling on the cold floor with her arms over Shelagh's legs, her hands fallen apart as if they had once been clenched in prayer. Shelagh turned her head, her father slept on the ground. The room was cold from lack of a burning fire. She squinted at the window, her blurred world was white. It was snowing._

 _"_ Mummy? _" Shelagh croaked, batting weakly at her mother's hand. She awoke, confused, and looked up at Shelagh, then gasped and struggled to sit up straight. She gathered Shelagh in her arms and whispered into her matted hair, "_ Thank the Lord _."_

 _Below them Shelagh's father woke. He too became immediately alert, sitting up and reaching a hand to touch Shelagh's brow. He sighed in relief, and Shelagh noticed he wiped at his eyes. Her mother set her gently down against the pillow and stroked her cheek, her throat. "_ Oh, darling, how do you feel? _"_

 _Shelagh coughed a little. She turned uncomfortably, but was too weak to do any more than that._ "I'm sleepy." _Her parents nodded understandingly. "_ It's snowing _," she told them, her voice raspy. Her mother laughed, wiping her eyes, and kissed her daughter's cheek. She looked out the window._

 _"_ Yes, it is. It is snowing. _"_

 _Her father stood and stretched, leaned in to kiss his wife. "_ I'll make some tea. Oatmeal? _" His wife nodded, and he looked down at Shelagh. "_ Would you like some oatmeal? _"_

 _She nodded slowly, happily, then frowned as the movement made her dizzy. "_ I feel sick. _"_

 _Her mother sat on the end of the small sofa and brought Shelagh's blanketed legs onto her lap. She reached through and began rubbing the little socked feet, warming them. There were blue crescents under her eyes from lack of sleep. "_ You were very sick last night. You'll have to stay in bed for awhile yet, until you're better. _"_

 _Shelagh didn't want to talk. "_ What've I got? _"_

 _Her mother leaned back to rest her head and continued rubbing Shelagh's feet. She looked at the rash over her daughter's neck, creeping down below her nightgown. It would fade in a week. "_ Scarlet fever, darling _." She remembered her own bought well. She'd lost two brothers to it at the age of ten. "_ But you've got an angel watching out for you, it seems."

 _Shelagh smiled sleepily. From the kitchen came the sound of water being run, pots being put on the stove._ "Sing to me, Mummy."

 _"_ Shall I? _"_

 _She nodded. "_ Yes. _"_

* * *

1962

"Sister Monica Joan said I'd find you out here," Shelagh said by way of a greeting, walking out onto the damp grass to join Sister Julienne. The older woman stood and smiled, wiping her hands on her apron.

"Where there is an orderly garden there are always weeds to be pulled," she said, picking up the basket of weeds. "It's wonderful you've come to visit, Shelagh."

Shelagh shrugged. "Well, unfortunately it's not an entirely personal call. I brought over the file on the Anderson twins for Nurse Franklin to read over before going to the hospital tomorrow." It was tucked under her arm.

Sister Julienne nodded. "Well, I'll see that she gets it. Will you stay for tea?"

Shelagh smiled. "I should like that very much," she said, meaning it more than she ever had.

"Come inside," Sister Julienne urged, "I believe we're not very far off from a deluge." It had already begun to sprinkle. She dumped the weeds in a compost pile and led Shelagh inside to the kitchen.

Shelagh looked out the window and saw it start to rain, the garden warped by the thick pane of glass. droplets hitting it like surprises. "I forgot how quiet it was here," she mused as Sister Julienne went about preparing tea.

"Yes," Sister Julienne said. "Although sometimes silence can feel oppressive." She glanced at Shelagh, who set the file down for Trixie on the table. "I'm afraid we'll have to take it here."

Shelagh nodded sympathetically, remembering that Sister Ursula now had the office that should be Sister Julienne's. Soon, tea was ready and poured.

"How are Timothy and Angela?" Sister Julienne asked, testing the waters.

"Oh, they're lovely. Angela's started teasing him a bit. And Timothy's officially taller than me," Shelagh chuckled. "He wants to broadcast that fact."

"I'm glad," Sister Julienne said. "And how are you?"

Shelagh looked at the older woman. "I'm managing," she said. "We all are."

"I am so very sorry, Shelagh. I know what it meant to you."

Shelagh surprised herself by suddenly missing her habit. It was warm, and had often felt like a shield against weather, against any prying eyes. It concealed everything that distracted and left only a bare face to betray who you were inside. At that moment she wished she could hide within it again. "Well, it's unlikely to happen again. I've accepted that it wasn't meant to be." She ran a fingernail over a groove in the wood of the table.

Sister Julienne frowned. "That may be true. But God works in mysterious ways, Shelagh. It could happen again. It's important to remember that there is always light beyond darkness."

Shelagh nodded. "You've told me that before, Sister."

The rain was heavier now, making the room feel small. "I remember," Sister Julienne said. She reached out to take Shelagh's hand, giving it a light squeeze. "And look how your life has changed since then."

* * *

 _1949_

 _"_ Sister Monica Joan said you might be here," _Sister Julienne said, sitting beside her._

 _Sister Bernadette looked away from the altar and up at Sister Julienne. She was exhausted. There was something in her face that Sister Julienne couldn't put a name on, and her whole being radiated a hidden energy. A bird in a cage that couldn't get out no matter how many times it bounced by the latch, waiting to be liberated._

"It's voices. The sound of their voice is what disappears first." _Sister Bernadette twisted her hands in her lap, then looked back at Sister Julienne, who listened quietly to the young postulant_. "After that it's their faces. They become blurry, less clear. There are photos, but it's not the same. No one grows older." _She took a steadying breath_. "Even memories of them change. We reinvent them. Make them nicer. But voices…Once they're gone they're lost forever." _She smiled_. "It's funny, the thing that stayed with me the most about my mother was her smell. She drank peppermint tea every night before bed."

 _Sister Julienne looked down at Sister Bernadette's twisting hands and suddenly remembered how young she was. Just a girl, really. She put her own hands on top of them, and they calmed_. "My father. I forgot the sound of his voice years ago, Sister. Even before he died!" _Her eyes were full of emotion._ "How could I?"

 _Before Sister Bernadette became too distressed, Sister Julienne smoothed her palm over her hands._ "Will you go home for the funeral?"

 _Sister Bernadette chuffed out a laugh._ "There was no funeral. Just a burial. Only our neighbour came." _She smiled sadly._ "To make sure a priest didn't bless his body." _She smiled at Sister Julienne's apparent confusion._

"My father doesn't believe in God, Sister. He did, I think, before my mother died. We never celebrated Christmas again after she was gone. Easter…"

 _Sister Julienne contemplated her words for a moment, then looked back at Sister Bernadette._ "I think you should go back one more time, Sister."

"They'll have moved everything out of the cottage," _she argued_. "It would just be an abandoned home. I can't. There's nothing for me there."

 _Sister Julienne sensed that the younger woman was near tears, and so she let her hands fall and instead wrapped an arm around her shoulders_. "Yes, there is. It was your home. You need to go back one last time." _And it was then that Sister Bernadette lost her carefully maintained control and leaned into Sister Julienne's embrace, weeping openly, each sob feeling like a knife in her belly._

 _"_ You have to find the light beyond this darkness _," Sister Julienne said. "_ It is always there. Always. _"_

* * *

 _April 1949_

 _"_ Nonnatus House, Sister Bernadette speaking _."_

 _There was a crackle on the other end of the line. "_ I called the London hospital, and they said that Shelagh Mannion had moved here. Could I speak with her _?"_

 _Sister Bernadette didn't recognize the voice, but she suddenly felt a chill run through her. "_ This is she. How can I help you _?"_

 _The caller sighed. "_ Shelagh, it's John Regis. You remember me? _"_

 _She nodded, then remembered he couldn't see her. "_ Yes, Mr. Regis, I remember you. _"_

 _"_ I'm so sorry, dear, but your father passed away on Saturday. _" If grief was pain, she felt it like a shard of glass in her foot. She couldn't speak for several moments. "_ I tried to reach you at the hospital to tell you about the burial. It was yesterday. He was buried next to your mother. _"_

 _"_ How? How did he die? _" Her voice scratched up her throat to be heard. The words felt like cavities._

 _"_ Cancer of the liver. He didn't tell you? _"_

 _She shook her head incredulously. "_ No. I had no idea. _"_

 _There was a sympathetic sigh from Mr. Regis. "_ I'm so sorry, dear. He — _"_

 _"_ Thank you, Mr. Regis _" Sister Bernadette said, and put down the receiver sloppily. It clunked into place._

 _The sound of purposeful footsteps, and then Sister Evangelina was passing by, back from a delivery. "_ A girl for Mr. and Mrs. Webb. Came out howling like a wolf. _" She stopped. "_ Goodness, Sister Bernadette, what's happened? _"_

 _She looked up, still dazed. "_ My father is dead. _"_

 **ATTENTION: MS. SHELAGH MANNION, NONNATUS HOUSE. LETTER DATED 16 FEBRUARY 1949, FORWARD REQUESTED FROM LONDON HOSPITAL BY SR. JULIENNE OF NONNATUS HOUSE, POPLAR, APRIL 1949.**

 _16 February 1949_

 _Shelagh,_

 _As I write this you are twenty-five years old and far away from me. The same age that we were when you came into this world. Maybe I should tell you about what's gone on since you left, or ask about your new life, but I haven't got the time. I'm writing this on a Wednesday, by the kitchen window so I can see outside. I just got back from the doctor's who said I've got cancer. He gave me four months at most. Cancer of the what? you'd ask. I couldn't care less. That's not what's important. It's the four months that matter._

 _Now I need to say the things I should have said long ago, because I am dying. The doctor who diagnosed me spoke the words sadly, as if he himself were the one at the receiving end of a death sentence. But for me it does not feel that way. It means that, if what your mother said was true, I'll see her again. Up there, like they say. God made Heaven and Earth and Hell. Since your mother's death God has disappeared from this place, leaving my wretched soul to rot until I finally abandon this Earth He made._

 _You believe, as she did, that there is a world beyond this one. If the two of you believe, then I suppose I am outnumbered. Perhaps, with luck, there's still a chance for me._

 _You told me once that I did not love you. That was never true. For me it was a matter of protecting myself, which was abhorrently selfish. I thought somehow that loving you would be too difficult._

 _If I admit it, sometimes it seemed to me that your mother loved you more than she did me. I was jealous. I was stupid. I now know that she loved so fiercely, with everything in her. She loved with such grace that it never occurred to me she could love more than one person. If it appeared that I loved you less after her death, I am sorry. Can you forgive me?_

 _As you are my only child I am leaving you all that I have. There's the farm, some of which has already been sold. The house. Do what you want with them. They may both be filled with memories, but do not be afraid to part with them, especially if you need the money. They won't fetch a large price, but I'd rather they went into someone's hands rather than lay abandoned here._

 _I have not heard from you in three years. Perhaps you've moved and forgotten the address. I like to imagine that by now you've become a nurse. The best one of your class, undoubtedly. If I believed in God I would thank Him for keeping war away from us. It would break my heart to think of you in a war zone. Perhaps you have a boyfriend. Above all, I wish that you are happy in your life._

 _Do you remember Licorice? She died yesterday._

 _Maybe I will tell you some of what has gone on since you left. Sometimes I go out across those fields, to where I liked to stand, by the fence in the second one, with the hill at the edge. Sometimes I walk there to see the fog coming down in the morning, or to watch the rare pink sunrises. One day not long ago I thought I saw you walking to me over the hill, carrying wildflowers. Wearing your blue dress. The one your mother made for Sundays. Your hair was like honey when you were a little girl. It turned golden with time, and when you left it had almost reached brown. But it always lightened in summer. The day I thought I saw you it was honey-colored._

 _If you read this letter, Shelagh, know that I am perfectly happy. I don't fear death, never have. We live and we die. It doesn't mean it hurts any less when people leave us. I know that it hurts me to know that I'll be leaving and you'll be there without us. How strange, to exist in a world where the two halves who made you whole have ceased to exist._

 _It would make me happier than anything to see you again, Shelagh. Even for a moment. Just to hear your voice calling me "Dad". I could have been a better father. I could have been a lot of things. But you will always be my daughter, and you'll always be my pride and joy. My little light in the darkness._

 _Write to me, please. Before I go. And if we do not meet again, and there is a Heaven like everyone says, I'll stay there and wait for you. And you take your time. Don't waste it mourning me. That's no way to live._

 _-Dad_

* * *

After they had cleaned up from dinner and Angela had been put to bed, Shelagh took off her glasses, put them on the kitchen table and yawned. "It seems as if all of Poplar are having their babies at night these days," she said. Timothy looked up from his book.

"Dad was out on a case late last night, too, wasn't he?"

Shelagh nodded. "He ended up riding in the ambulance to the hospital with the poor woman, the bleeding was so bad. Your father was back home at four in the morning."

Timothy thought for a moment. "He didn't go out on as many calls after Mum died."

Shelagh sighed. "Well he couldn't, could he? He had you to take care of. And now there's someone to be with you if someone else needs him." She suddenly looked concerned. "You don't mind, do you?"

He shook his head. "No, it's not that. I just noticed that he seemed busier than usual."

Shelagh chuckled. "At Nonnatus I was lucky to get five hours of sleep."

Timothy put down his book on the floor by the settee, where he was sitting. He seemed uneasy.

"Tim? You look a bit peaky," Shelagh said quietly, feeling his forehead. "Would you like a cup of tea?"

He nodded, and they walked to the kitchen together. Shelagh began preparing tea, and Timothy took two biscuits out. "Go on and wait in the sitting room, I'll bring this out in a moment," she said, and he went back to sit on the settee. His chest felt very heavy.

When Shelagh finally sat down at the other end, she handed him a cup of herbal tea. "This might make you feel better," she explained.

He took a sip of tea, then looked at her. "Can I ask you something?"

Shelagh nodded. "Always."

"How did you feel when your mother died?" He asked, hoping the question wasn't too blunt.

If she was surprised by the question, she didn't let on. Just took a sip from her own cup and reflected. "I was nine when she died." She looked at Timothy and saw the flicker of remembrance in his own eyes. "I remember feeling very angry at first. Angry at her for leaving me. Then I felt very alone. It was like a part of me had been ripped out and I couldn't patch the wound, it just kept bleeding." She pulled her feet up onto the settee and curled them under her. "And I cried more than I would have ever thought possible. I cried when I saw things that reminded me of her. I tried to stay strong for my dad, but I was such a little girl. I'd had a birthday the month before she died, and I'd felt so big and grown up. But after she died I felt like a baby who didn't know how to walk. I felt like that for a long time. Like I just wanted someone to hold my hand and tell me what to do."

Timothy nodded understandingly. "But you had your father."

Shelagh smiled at him, then looked at her teacup. "I did. But it's not the same. The bond between a baby and its mother is the strongest thing on Earth. I see it every day. The way a mother looks at her baby moments after it's born… There's nothing like it. Absolute, unconditional love." She glanced back at him. "A father's love can be just a strong, but in a different way. I loved both my parents equally, but when my mother died I truly felt as if a part of my soul had gone with her."

"Do you still miss her, even though you're grown up?"

Shelagh nodded. "I miss her every day. I wish she had seen me marry your father. I wish she had seen me become a mother myself. From the day I married your father and became your stepmother I wished so much that I had her to talk to, for her to tell me how to be a mother, what to do. And then with Angela. I've held so many babies in my life, but every time I picked Angela up when she was a baby I felt I'd drop her and she'd break like glass." Shelagh paused and smiled. "You know, my mother used to drink herbal tea every night before bed like this. Peppermint, not camomile."

Timothy swirled the tea in his cup, watching the stray leaves twirl in the yellow water. "I don't think you needed anyone to tell you what to do. You're a great mum."

Shelagh smiled and reached to squeeze his hand. "That may be true, but I doubt very much that you don't think of your mother, and that you miss her a great deal."

He set down his empty teacup and brought his own legs onto the settee, noticing how Shelagh glanced at the bottom of his socks to verify that they were clean. "I do miss her sometimes," he admitted. "I miss hearing her play the piano, and the way she always burned cakes at the edges." Shelagh smiled. "And even though she played the piano she couldn't carry a tune. I used to hate it when she sang at church." He chuckled. "It was horrible."

Shelagh laughed and finished her own cup of tea. "You're not a bad singer," Timothy added. Shelagh chuckled.

"Thank you for that fine endorsement, Timothy," she said.

"At first, when Dad said he was going to marry you, I wasn't sure if I wanted a new mother. I wasn't sure I even wanted to call you 'Mum'." Shelagh nodded, having thought the same thing years ago. "But I think Mum would've wanted us to be happy. She'd be pleased that Dad was happy, and that even if she wasn't there I still had a mother." He looked at Shelagh. "I was actually afraid to call you 'Mum'. I wasn't sure that you'd like it."

Shelagh smiled. "I love it. I was so afraid of overstepping, but you solved that problem for me."

"Mum?"

"Yes?"

He had debated asking the question, knowing it would potentially be a painful one to answer. "If you do have a baby, do you think you'd love it more than me or Angela? Honestly? I won't be mad. I'm just curious."

Shelagh sighed. "I've thought about it myself, Tim. And I truly think that I wouldn't. I couldn't love anything more than you, or Angela, or your father. Sometimes I feel so full of love that I feel like bursting. Adding another child and potentially loving it more than one of you three would be a health hazard."

He chuckled.

"Don't laugh, Timothy, it's the truth! It gives me heartburn just thinking about it."

There was the squeak of a key in the front door followed by the sound of Patrick coming in. He walked into the sitting room and smiled, sighing in relief after a long night. "I'm getting too old for this," he said.

Shelagh began to stand. "I set aside your dinner, if you'd like to finish it. You barely got through two bites before you were called off." He motioned for her to stay where she was.

"I'll get it, you stay there." Patrick smiled and went to the kitchen.

* * *

Author's Note: I'm sorry if this chapter is a little...scattered. It was written in pieces, and I tried to put them together in a way that made some form of sense. Heavy stuff! Super duper thanks go to **thatginchygal** on Tumblr for always encouraging me, and for confirming that Series 6 took place in 1962 because I was too lazy to just look it up myself! Reviews are like candy, and I've got a terrible sweet tooth.

The song that Shelagh's mother sings is called "The Elfin Knight", a Scottish folk song dating from the 1600s. It is thought to have influenced an English variant, "Scarborough Fair".

By the way, I am ridiculously proud of myself. I wrote in Shelagh's father's letter that he was writing on a Wednesday. Then while I was proofreading I thought it might be prudent to check if February 16, 1949 had actually been a Wednesday. And it was!


End file.
